


Memorabilia

by woodedmoss



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Short, salt and pepper are used in ways they're not supposed to be used, vague mentions of stillborn children, vague religious mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:01:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodedmoss/pseuds/woodedmoss
Summary: Not everything lasts forever, no memory is eternal. For now, however, this is all the eternity that he needs.





	Memorabilia

Memories were so easily torn, fragmented, and tossed away. Likewise, they are just as easily remembered, in vivid detail, or in murky light. As easy as they were to forget, they were impossible to not remember, and eventually, all memories can and could be brought back to the surface. 

A similar concept was that of death. Every creature, every single creation with a mass of cells, must die. It isn’t up to the being to determine how, when, or where it dies- such as a stillborn baby, its lungs forever trapped with the cries for its mother that it never got to say. Plants eventually wilted, their delicate posteriors rotting away into mush, and animals all died, their flesh rotting away to leave bones for some scavenger to collect. 

There were always outliers to this cycle, outliers who disobeyed the natural law, who disturbed the ripples in the pond. One bacteria to escape the antibiotics, one animal to escape the fire, one human to escape the place between life and death. Much like memories, they were torn. Unable to fully seek out peace, instead finding it in places it shouldn’t be found. 

One such man found people like that, people who lie outside of the normal human cycle of grief. His proudest item was one that was never in any cycle to begin with, an item with delicate auburn fur to stroke, soft porcelain skin to split, and gorgeous crimson blood to release. That toy was touched by nobody else besides for him, and that toy was to be locked in the chest until the sun scorched the Earth, leaving horrendous burns behind. 

Strade was not an unusual man to the public. He liked to drink, he liked to grill, he took a particular fondness towards trimming his grass every Sunday, and making a point of showing up at every stupid barbecue he was invited to. Public appearances were his thing, and being well respected was a metal he proudly wore on his offset green button-up shirt

(God pray nobody noticed the murky light brown stain that refused to come out from underneath the collar).

He was the model image for a good suburban husband, and when questioned with a wife, or husband, Strade would jovially laugh, teasing that he was saving himself for somebody who saw him on the inside. Nobody ever questioned it, and the facade was unbreakable, his smile ever persistent

(maybe he should win a fucking Oscar for best leading actor, or maybe an Emmy for the symphony of screams that would echo into the void when he slid his knife through a sensitive patch of nerves).

Behind locked doors was always a different story, for every person. Some people choose to slide down their door, and cry, while some people get slammed against it by a hungry lover, passion making the air hot and heavy. 

Tonight, however, the German man had something. A new prize, one that had adapted through his mind games and physical torture for three days, now. She had cried, and pleaded for him to stop, but he didn’t listen. He never did. Now, she had to watch in sickly sweet fear, as Strade turned to her, two small containers in each hand. 

“You said you were into the culinary arts, ja?” He had sneered, a disgusting smile on his face. The jars were turned, and the poor woman could see that the jars were full of salt and pepper. He drew closer, and she started to scream, but he didn’t mind, setting the jars down and taking his hunting knife out. 

The knife was roughly dragged through an untouched piece of her thigh, and he picked up the jar of salt, amber eyes locking with hers as a malicious grin spread on his face. 

“Strade! Please, no, please don’t do this!” The woman begged, hot tears rolling down her cheeks, liquid snot dripping onto her top lip. Strade’s eyes flitted back down to her leg, before digging two fingers into the cut, holding it open.

The salt was poured into the wound, and the woman wailed, her throat going raw. She wailed, and screamed, and wailed some more until she couldn’t anymore, until all that came out was a symphony of raspy exhales of air. 

Strade watched the entire time, fascination wrinkling his nose, settling into his forehead. The muscle underneath her skin jumped, and twitched, and when he plunged his fingers into the gaping opening, it fluttered around him like a panicked butterfly. 

(what if he poured salt where it shouldn’t go? He wasn’t thinking about skin any more- well, he was, but- his mind now wondering if he should hold her cunt open, and pour the salt into there. She did say she was a virgin, so he laughed, and told her that he wouldn’t do anything yet, fully intending on fucking her with the handle of one of his fabric handled knives… but this idea was much sweeter. However, he couldn’t fuck her after that, so… maybe after he’d had his own time. All in the name of home science!).

Once she had calmed down, at least enough to look at him, he stood up. 

“Open up, Schatzi!” Strade crooned, hand shooting out to harshly grip her bottom jaw, forcing her mouth. She didn’t fight as he then poured a larger amount of pepper into her mouth, watching with satisfaction as she started to choke, her eyes widening as a panicked whimper tore its way out of her blistered throat. 

Physical memories never last, and all things eventually come to an end. However, in the lasting plane of the mind, things are eternal. Things are as forever as the beholder is, may it be eternity, may it be one lonesome night at a cheerful bar. 

Not long after the poor woman’s death, another joined Strade. Much shorter, and skinnier in physique, he seemed timid. He was. He had to be. 

“Would you help me clean up?” Strade asked, a meaty hand on the newcomer’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, uh… yeah.” The shorter muttered, moving to the cabinets to find a well-used rag. 

While he cleaned, and Strade carelessly shoved the body into a kiln, he said his quiet farewells to a soul never met, wishing her a nice sendoff to whatever afterlife she believed in. Hopefully, it would treat her better than this never-ending life. Hopefully, she never found her way back. 

One outlier of the natural cycle was enough.


End file.
